The Waitress Watches
by Little Bassoonist
Summary: Two women, seperated by 50 years, glimpse into the lives of the Cullens. One-shot. Please review!


Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight or any large franchise, or else I wouldn't be spending my time writing fanfiction on my computer.

Amber Jones flipped her long, dark hair out of her big deer eyes, loudly smacking on a piece of gum. The Phillies played on her small, fuzzy television; the screen flickered and the announcer's voice could barely be heard above the weather outside. Rain pounded on the roof of her small and humble diner, dripped into a well-placed bucket in the back. The Philly Diner, neon sign buzzing, had almost no customers that day, as the rain set people in a dreary mood that confined them to the insides.

One small girl sat in the corner booth, having been there for almost an hour without ordering a single thing. She could possibly have been the strangest customer ever to enter the Philly Diner that Amber had seen. She was tiny, not even five feet tall, but in no way looked childish. Her eyes, dark and mysterious, showed wisdom and age, worn in a way that contrasted with her wrinkle-free skin. Her hair was short and jet-black, almost in a boyish cut, but her feminine figure fit together with it in a strangely beautiful look, like a puzzle. She had tried to make conversation with the girl, to make sure that she was positive she wanted no food.

When Amber neared her, the first thought that entered her mind was where she got her perfume. The girl smelled sweet, a combination of many scents, like roses and violets and lavender, but also strangely of honey.

"No food?" she asked again.

"No, thank you. I'm waiting for someone." Her voice was shrill and smooth.

They paused. "By the way, I'm Amber." She stuck out her hand.

"Alice." The girl didn't take it.

"Can I ask where you get your perfume?" she blurted, curiosity getting the best of her. "It smells nice."

"India. It's very rare and expensive, I'm afraid you probably couldn't get a hold of it. Sorry."

Amber wanted to ask why wear such an expensive scent to a dingy old diner, no matter how important the person she waited for was.

Twenty minutes passed before the door opened. The little brass bell on the end rang, waking her up from her daytime reverie, staring out at the rain. A gorgeous man stepped in, dripping wet, and sat at one of the red barstools. He had honey-blond hair, shiny eyes that almost looked gold, (probably the fluorescent lights) and a perfect build. Amber suddenly felt calmer, happier, and warm, even in the gloomy storm. But her instinct told her to keep her guard up, no matter how good-looking the man happened to be. Alice noticed, too. She stood up from her spot after remained statue still for who-knows-how-long, and gracefully walked towards the man. Her movements reminded her of a ballerina, and she couldn't help but watch in awe.

Though her Alice tried to keep her voice low, the high-pitched tone made it possible for Amber to listen to their conversation. "I've been waiting for you," she whispered.

He muttered an inaudible reply, sounding like a question by the look on his face.

"Yes, I'm one of you." Her tone made it sound as if she were answering and obvious question.

Another sub-audible remark.

"I see things... different from what most see."

Pause.

"It changes constantly. Except for you. I still see you."

By then, the man threw a cautious look over his shoulder to Amber, listening intently, who blushed furiously at his stare. He motioned to the booth, and they continued to speak out of earshot. She figured that they belonged to some elite sort of club, which would explain the _I'm one of you_. The other comments could be chalked up to a relationship, in which Alice admitted having other, temporary, beaus while the man was the only one who lasted. She shrugged, and let the couple be.

50 YEARS LATER

18-year-old Amber Johnson hurried through the Bella Italia, serving the evening rush. Directed to Table 17, she bustled to serve a teenage couple. The girl was completely ordinary, with plain brown hair, plain brown eyes, plain pale skin. But the boy she was with was anything but. He had bronze hair, a perfect, angelic face, and shiny eyes that looked golden. (She assumed it was the fluorescent lights.) Amber's heart started to flutter, and almost leapt out of her chest when she got closer. He smelled so _good._ Sweet, with a hint of sour, like a candy apple.

"H-hi, I'm Alyssa—Amber, I'm Amber" she stuttered (this strange man was making her forget her name already), "and I'll be your s-server tonight. C-can I start you off with someone," she caught herself quickly, "something to drink?"

He ordered two Cokes, and she ran off to fetch them and the clear her head. How could such a stranger affect her like that? How could any human being be so dang gorgeous? How could he have existed so long and she not know?

Amber delivered the Cokes and took their orders. The girl got mushroom ravioli, but the man (she couldn't say boy) refused anything to eat. She blushed and left again, only to watch the two talk. He handed the girl his jacket at some point. They were obviously a "thing," or very close friends. Waiting on other tables, she picked up bits of conversation about someone from school (Joe and Jane) and mind reading. Were they science fiction fans or something? It wouldn't matter. He was still gorgeous.

Though Amber's well-practiced flirtatious smiles and gestures did not good, she still couldn't help but feel happy and fluttery when she gave the girl her food and refilled their drinks. Usually, after a flit attempt failed, she lost all interest in the guy, but not this one. His gold-tinted eyes made a lasting imprint in her mind.

She never saw those eyes again, but nor did she forget them.

And neither did Amber Jones forget that day in 1948 in the Philly Diner. Even 50 years later, she shared the story to nobody but her granddaughter, also named Amber, also a waitress, but at a different restraunt. (A small Italian place in Port Angeles.) They had both glimpsed at other people's lives, people who hardly seemed people, and they remembered when they saw. They shared their secrets to each other, a grandmother-granddaughter relationship they would carry to the grave. They never learned the conversations their respective mystery people shared. They never saw anyone quite so beautiful. They never saw another instance of those gold-looking eyes.

But it probably was just the fluorescence.


End file.
